Butterfly Effect
by trufflemores
Summary: Burt's life unfolds serendipitously.


Burt's a good person.

He graduated high school, he got an associate's degree, he nailed his third job interview and got a job as an assistant mechanic.

He couldn't cook, but he could do a load of laundry while his girlfriend-of-three-years (and _counting,_ God, he was doing something so right) was teaching her kids at school. He fixed chairs when they broke and brought the Chinese takeout home on nights when he didn't work till nine. In six years, he saved enough money to start up his own shop.

It was scary because business never paid the bills _on time,_ it leapt and plummeted on the whims of a humorless higher power, and Burt did his damn best but he still felt frayed during those early years. They were broke in those days, relying on the generosity of Mollie's parents more than anything to pay the water bills _and_ utilities. They once went six frickin' _months_ without cable because they couldn't make ends meet, and it shouldn't have mattered, but Burt _missed_ the simplicity of coming home, cracking open a cool can of beer, and watching a game.

That was the first thing he did when they put down a payment: invited three high school buddies over, broke out a case of beer, and laughed with sheer joy at having cable again. (They lost the game, but no one cared: the beer was gone and spirits were high anyway.)

She loved him and the future was warm and bright. Everything was coming together at the shop, and they would never be rich but they would be housed, fed, watered, and warm, and Burt believed that happiness derived externally once those needs were met.

And who couldn't be happy to love someone like her?

He loved it. He loved raking the leaves the first autumn they had a _house,_ loved putting up a hammock even though it took two hours, loved painting rooms until he was ready to drop. He loved it because she was there: helping him bag leaves until sunset, laughing at his hammock assembling attempts as she sat on the back porch with a Coke and a stack of papers at her side, hip-checking him as she slid against the unpainted wall and passed him a beer, clinking glasses because she deserved a drink, too.

It swept him off his feet when, eight years after she became his girlfriend – four years since they exchanged vows – she got pregnant.

He became a dad on May 27, 1994.

He was twenty-eight years old and she was twenty-nine, and something in his world was so, so right then.

They loved him. Even in his worst moments, they loved him. And the good ones?

The good ones were pure joy.

Kurt was _vibrant._ Burt knew kids were full of energy, and Kurt was no exception, but he'd never known how much _personality_ fit into such a small package. Kids weren't just sponges: they were sounding boards, receiving information, shaping it into something new and personal and bigger than themselves, and projecting it outward. They loved to talk, but they had things to _say,_ and Burt hadn't known the difference at first but he learned it.

Talking was what he did with the boys at the shop while they were fixing up a car: it was the weather, the latest game, the upcoming sale, the best cars on the market.

Kurt didn't care about any of that, unless choice of blue mittens over pink counted as 'weather related.'

No, he cared about why the stars existed, where the moon came from, who the president was, _why_ he was the president, what a T-rex sounded like, what a wrench was, why it was called a leap year, what "Kansas" was, why some trees turned yellow, and why he had to wear a seatbelt.

He challenged Burt existentially, challenged him intellectually, challenged him emotionally after exhaustive shifts, but above all he challenged him to be a better person, to _know_ things, to mean what he said, to speak honestly but kindly, to actually _say_ I'm sorry, to take chances on things that had no appeal to him but meant something to Kurt.

He learned a lot, letting Kurt take the lead. And Kurt was a great kid, even when he broke the jar of cookies. He was smart, and he learned things quickly, impressing Burt every week with a new set of skills.

It was fun. Being a dad was fun: taking him to soccer practice, setting out pumpkins for Halloween, watching _Beauty and the Beast_ with Kurt cuddled up beside him, one hand in his shirt and the other clinging to a worn teddy bear.

Being a dad was the best thing that ever happened to Burt, and watching her with Kurt – that was even better.

She taught Kurt how to make cookies, not formally, but through showers of flour and hints of vanilla, kneading the dough and sneaking bites of it before finally putting their trays into the oven. It always smelled amazing in the house whenever they did, and Burt came home and smiled because he _loved_ that, knowing there was a fresh jar of cookies sitting on the counter, eager for sampling.

She took Kurt roller-skating, and he had two left feet but Burt enjoyed himself because _Kurt_ enjoyed himself, even as he skittered and almost stumbled before she swept in and replanted him on his feet.

She helped him fly kites, took him to the zoo and introduced him to the neighbor's cats – and he _loved_ them, because they always brushed up against him and purred. She read him the first _Harry Potter_ chapter-by-chapter for a month. She took them all to Disney World, and Burt hadn't ever had a profound desire to go but he bought a cheap camera and stored those memories forever, because watching Kurt, struggling with emotion, hug Belle was so, so worth it.

He was the cutest kid, with the sweetest personality, and Burt thought that he was absolutely perfect in every way.

And he was also very sure that he was different.

Kurt had always been inquisitive, but a three-year-old begging for a pair of sensible heels instead of a soccer ball struck Burt as _different._

To be fair, Mollie had always had a terrific sense of style. She worn shoes like they were beautiful and meant to be exhibited: a dozen pairs, one for every occasion, warm weather or cool, soft or tough, work-friendly and formal. Burt had exactly three pairs of footwear: a solid pair of boots, a well-worn set of sneakers, and a scarcely used pair of formal shoes.

Understandably, Kurt gravitated towards the richer bounty, and Burt justified it easily – at the time – as a simple aesthetic pleasure. Shoes were _pretty._ Kurt loved pretty, be it horses or cars or sunrises (which, thanks to Kurt, Burt also saw far more of).

But something _nagged_ at him, some hidden notion that things weren't picket-fence perfect.

Still: watching Kurt grow, seeing those moments again, he wouldn't change it.

He wouldn't take the heels away and hand him a toy truck instead. He wouldn't insist on playing something more masculine, like baseball, over tea parties. He wouldn't question the increasing use of light pastels in Kurt's wardrobe, making him stand out more and more against the crowd. He wouldn't stop him from singing, and it wasn't like the rich tenor he knew but it was sweet.

He wouldn't change a damn thing, because he'd make mistakes and broken promises and failed to get things done, but he'd never forgive himself for smothering the essence of lightness and joy that was _Kurt._

Mollie's death almost did that for him.

They both entered a stupor. It was hard to be a widower. It was harder to be a widower and a _person._ Being a widower and a dad felt like hell, because everything about Kurt reminded him of the gaping hole in his life.

Burt thinks they might not have survived emotionally intact – that Kurt's increasing quietness may have continued uninterrupted – had something very important happened one October morning.

They're at the playground and it's late, past four-thirty, and Burt knows he has to take Kurt home soon and make dinner, but there's a group of kids and they're kicking a soccer ball around and he just watches them for a moment, like their parents scattered around the area, until suddenly the ball rolls close enough and Kurt picks it up.

"Hi," a boy puffs, skidding to a halt in the plastic tire chips beside him. "Wanna play?"

Kurt stares at the ball and for a moment Burt sees an eight-year-old boy trying _so hard_ to find some sense of normal.

"Come on," a girl shouts from halfway across the adjacent grassy field. "It's our turn, Blaine!"

"I'm coming!" the boy – Blaine – replies, tugging on Kurt's sleeve to get him moving. "You can be on my team – Puck's not very good but Mike is _very_ good."

Kurt opens his mouth to reply but they're already moving, and Burt wonders if he should rescue the poor kid because he looks stricken, but then they're on the field and kicking the ball around and it's like something is _okay_ again.

"He's good," a man pipes in, sliding onto the bench beside him. "Leroy Berry," he introduces, holding out a hand to shake. "I heard about your recent misfortune," he adds quietly. "I wanted to say something sooner. I truly am very sorry for your loss."

It hurts, but Burt still manages to say, "It's okay."

It's not, but if he can't lie to people's faces he'll never be able to do it for himself.

"Listen," Leroy continues, leaning in slightly, conspiratorially, "I don't know what plans you had tonight, but my husband is out of town and I have far too much food for myself and my daughter alone. Would you and – "

He glances at the field. "Kurt," Burt supplies, caught off-guard but unable to take affront at being in the presence of someone so openly – well, _gay._

"Kurt – would you like to come over for dinner?" Leroy finishes.

Burt wants to say "We're fine, thanks." But they're not, and a home-cooked meal sounds nice, and honestly, he hasn't talked with another adult this much since the funeral.

So he says, "Sounds great."

"Terrific." Leroy beams, and it occurs to Burt that perhaps the invitation was more than serendipitous, that the two – Leroy and his husband, and Burt is still trying to process that one – may have planned it beforehand, an act of sympathy centered around his _recent misfortune._

But it's nice. To have someone care, months later, when the dust has started to settle and relatives have stopped trying to make him feel better.

It takes another hour before the kids finally break up, out of breath and flushed, racing across the field to their respective parents. Kurt's already talking about the awesome kick he did and did you see, Dad, did you see that?

"I did," Burt assures, hugging him and ruffling his hair, his eyes surreptitiously picking out the other parents. (He notices the odd one out – the Blaine kid, tugging on a kid too young to be a parent's legs, prompting him to put him up on his shoulders.) Letting his attention reorient, he looks at Kurt and then at Leroy and says, "Mr. Berry invited us to dinner."

There's an elated gasp from behind him, followed shortly by a, "I can show you my _songs,_ Kurt!"

Kurt blinks, then says, "Okay."

Then he's back to flushed grinning, adding, "I kicked two goals, Dad."

Kids don't bounce back in a day, but hell, they can bounce back.

So Burt smiles, claps him lightly on the shoulder, and tells him, "That's really great, kiddo."

He knows – intellectually – that they would have been okay, eventually.

They would have bounced back.

But it's good to feel normal again.

And it's a new normal, for them. Leroy cooks them a _feast,_ and they can scarcely carry the tuperwares he sends them off with. Burt exchanges numbers with him and slowly learns to cook. They never see the Blaine kid again, but Kurt makes other friends, and Burt finds himself paying attention at work again instead of drifting off in his own thoughts. He attends the school plays and takes Kurt to Disney World again when he's thirteen.

He sings Disney for a frickin' _month,_ and Burt has honestly never been more relieved that this is his son.

He's a kid who bounces back, who grows, who proves himself immovable when faced with an increasingly unforgiving world.

When Kurt comes out to him, Burt hasn't fully banished his own idea of what his son will be when he's twenty four, happily engaged to his girlfriend-of-three-years, but he sees Kurt for who he is, a Kurt who's engaged by twenty-one and married by twenty-two. He sees a Kurt who pursues a career in fashion and song instead of car repair, a Kurt who fails again and again without loss of enthusiasm, a Kurt who becomes something greater than Burt ever dreamed for himself.

He let Kurt be who he was meant to be, and Kurt became something great.

As Burt hugs him on Kurt's wedding night, he says, "I am so, so proud of you."

Kurt's crying, but he's also smiling, and when he hugs Burt back he's strong enough that Burt knows he'll make it.

The greatest revenge is being _happy,_ in spite of everything, because of everything.

Burt lets Kurt go, and he drifts back to Blaine's side immediately, slipping into his hold and laughing when he starts swaying them playfully, an imitation of a refined dance.

They're so in love, and Burt thinks: _This is exactly how it was meant to be._

Hell or high water, loss or suffering, tragedy or compromise: it worked.

It _works._

Carole arches both eyebrows and smiles when he steps up to her and offers her a beer. "Champagne just doesn't have the same kick to it," she tells him, gratefully accepting it.

And they hang back and watch their boys, and Burt is struck by how right everything feels.

It was worth the wait, he decides. And it was worth the chances and the losses.

Seeing Kurt _happy_ – that's worth everything.

And it's exactly what he wants, and Carole wants, and Mollie would have wanted, too.

 _You are so loved,_ he thinks, watching his son sway in a true slow dance with Blaine.

When Kurt catches his eyes, there's a smile there, and the message is clear: _I love you, too._

Burt smirks, lifts his glass in a silent toast. He's willing to share, to be a part of Kurt's life.

To let him go, but to never lose him.

The only thing he can feel is _happy._

Thirty years ago, he did something so, so right.

He saw the most beautiful woman, and he didn't sweep her off her feet or fall to his knees in supplication.

He told her she had amazing shoes.

 _Butterfly effect,_ he thinks.

He laughs, and he hugs his wife, and he gives a toast to his new family, and he knows that all is right in his world.


End file.
